Who'd Have Known
by The.Dust.Of.Jack
Summary: Who'd have known, who'd have known, when you flash up on my phone, I no longer feel alone; no longer feel alone. Sherlock/John


Title: Who'd have known  
Pairing: John/Sherlock. ACTUAL JOHN/SHERLOCK. NO FREAKING WHAY.  
Rating: tweenies and scenies, it is safe for yooou.  
Warning: Um…cheesiness. =) I do like cheese occasionally in between courses of HATE and DEATH and VILE BETRAYERS.  
Word Count: 3,527  
Disclaimer: These incarnations of Sherlock belong to the BBC.

Summary: Who'd have known, who'd have known, when you flash up on my phone, I no longer feel alone; no longer feel alone.

A/N: Lily Allen is the source of happiness. You know, I had real difficulty getting John and Sherlock together. As in actually together. Not the usual mildly sarcastic, 'it aint gunna happen kids' sort of together where you have to wince until your eyelids rip. Nooo, not this time. But it was hard and painful and blood was spilt, goddamn. The result still doesn't sit right with me, but actual Sherlock/John or actual Light/L or, in fact, actual anyone/anything never does. It's why I don't write it and why I kill characters off instead, RWAAHHH D= -issues-

* * *

It had apparently started with the accident which left John blushing and Sherlock honestly speechless with himself while everyone else giggled around them.

Truthfully, though, it had started a couple of weeks before that when Sherlock and John had stumbled into 221B at almost dawn, worn out from running, laughing, expecting to be high from the exhilaration and up until at least nine the next morning. John knew he wouldn't be making it to work tomorrow. But as they sat down in their chairs John realised just how tired he really was as he yawned and he felt if he didn't move now he was likely to fall asleep in this chair right that instant. Thinking of the horrible crick in the neck he'd experience when he would wake up if he did such a thing, he was quick to sit up and tell Sherlock he was going to bed, because he really was very tired.

Sherlock, who didn't look the least bit tired and never ever did, asked cheekily whether John would make him a cup of tea while he was up, and with a groan, John tried to protest.

"Really?" He asked. "Seriously? You want me to handle boiling water when I've just realised how very tired I am?"

"Consider it a challenge." Sherlock said, leaning his head back to look a John and grinning cheerfully. "You do like dangerous situations so."

John groaned again, resisting the urge to punch that damned smug look off Sherlock's face which he donned when he knew he had won an argument, and John moodily trudged into the kitchen.

As he put the kettle on and rummaged around the cupboards for some tea bags he heard Sherlock get up from his chair and move. His footsteps were soft, though, so John wasn't exactly sure where he had gone.

By the time the kettle had stopped screaming and John had managed to only miss the mugs with the boiling water a few times, he fished out the tea bags and threw them into the sink to be disposed of properly in the morning. Then he took the mugs by the handle and headed to the living room to see where the detective had gone to. When John realised he had gone into a completely different room he groaned out loud at the thought of having to play hide and seek with the man so early in the morning when he hadn't slept a wink yet and was still carrying heavy cups of tea. Sherlock's coat and scarf was still there, so that meant he hadn't left the house, but John couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or not. If Sherlock had gone out again, there wouldn't even be the risk of being woken up by a violin in only a few hours. The more he thought about such a happening the more he wished Lestrade would text the man and Sherlock could just go and leave John in peace.

It took a while to find him, because Sherlock was not in his own room or the bath room and wasn't in the kitchen so that meant Sherlock had done the unthinkable and left without coat or scarf, or, the more likely but still incomprehensible conclusion – Sherlock was in John's room. Why he was in there, John dreaded to think.

He did in fact find Sherlock in his bedroom, and more importantly, he found Sherlock on his bed. Not in his bed, but instead Sherlock lay draped across John's blanket and had his back resting across the headboard. His head was slump forward, chin resting on his chest, and his eyes were closed. John honestly thought for a moment that Sherlock had fallen asleep. Then he remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about, and Sherlock had just solved a case, and Sherlock would in fact be buzzing for at least the next twelve hours, when he would then collapse out of exhaustion assuming that Lestrade hadn't text with another case him by then. At this thought, John changed his mind and hoped Lestrade didn't make contact with either of them for at least three days.

John looked to the apparently sleeping Sherlock again and snorted in disbelief, walking around the side of the bed and placing the tea on the bedside table, well within Sherlock's reach should he decide to 'wake up'. John sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock with all due amusement, and after a moment Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he smirked when John jumped.

"Pretending didn't work then?" He said, and John rolled his eyes.

"No, it didn't, though I wouldn't mind knowing why the hell you're in my room in the first place." John said, and Sherlock ignored him for a minute as he reached for his tea, black with two sugars, and sipped it happily.

"It was a favour." He said. "I thought you would want to come straight up to your room rather than take the detour to give me my tea, so I thought the logical step would be to be in your room waiting for my tea here instead."

John laughed a bit at his friend's insane logic, before admitted it was a pretty obvious to land on, though, to be fair, if Sherlock stayed where he had before it really wouldn't have been too much off John's course to hand it to him while he sat in his armchair. But Sherlock had an answer for that too.

"I heard you take out two mugs." He said simply, as if that answered all John's questions. When John looked at him expecting more Sherlock was the one to roll his eyes this time.

"Obviously that meant you were making two cups of tea – one for me, and one for yourself, even though you said you wished to go to sleep. Evidently you don't as you proceeded to make yourself a caffeine filled drink. Tea has more caffeine in it than coffee, you know, if you weigh it all up."

John blinked a few times, before going to the other side of his bed and leaning back on the headboard next to Sherlock. He sipped at his drink absently. "Hmm." Was all he said in reply.

"'Hmm'?" Sherlock parroted. "Is that all you have to say?"

"It's too early to think, Sherlock." John whined, holding his tea in one hand and resting it on his knee which was bent upwards. "And it's always too early to argue with you. If I said I wanted a hot drink you would say something about other hot drinks which weren't filled to the brim with caffeine like hot chocolate which, for your information, we don't have any of, and if I said I craved tea you would probably say it's some sort of Freudian desire wedged deep in my subconscious to stay awake always and whittle away the hours talking with you." His other arm went to rest across the headboard, and Sherlock moved his neck to allow it before settling against it. While Sherlock didn't seem to notice the action, John certainly did and knew that if Sherlock remained there for too long his hand would go numb. At the same time, though he did nothing to move Sherlock away.

"Wonderful logic, John." Sherlock said. "But not completely correct. If it were Freudian it would not be to whittle away the hours speaking with me, but something much less innocent."

Sherlock then drew his attention to John's window before John could dignify that with a response. Outside the rain they'd just missed in their chase was starting to become incredibly heavy. While Sherlock said that more murders happen in the rain, John just muttered there was definitely a storm coming. He saw Sherlock smirk, and again came that urge to wipe it clean off of him.

"Tomorrow we can chase after another few murderers shall we, even when all the evidence has been washed away by the rain?" Sherlock said happily, eagerly awaiting the chase. "Sounds like a fine way to spend our Saturday."

"How long with the storm last, do you think?" John wondered. "Because I think I lost my umbrella."

Sherlock smiled outright that time, and John liked the way it looked on Sherlock's face.

"You know," John said. "If it's raining too hard we might have to stay in and watch mind-numbing daytime TV with Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock spun to face him, expression one of a person most scandalised at such a preposterous idea, and it made John grin wide, and before he could really register what he was doing, he had kissed Sherlock solidly on the mouth.

Sherlock took it silently and when John let him go a moment later Sherlock just looked confused.

"How strange." He said, though he must have known it was coming, and nothing really changed for them both as they settled down to talk again, completely usual, but at the same time they could both feel a milestone had been crossed – something important had happened and they would take it in stride and accept it, though whether it would ever happen again was up for debate.

* * *

Sherlock and John were two inseparable people, simply because they lived together, and in a way they worked together, and John was Sherlock's only friend, and for the most part John could say likewise about the detective, because as friends went Sherlock was probably the truest John had and he didn't annoy John at every turn with idle chatter about footie and girls – rather, Sherlock annoyed John in other ways, such as his morbid obsession with carcases and his complete disregard for the feelings of others, but that's just the way he was.

The day after the kissing incident, the rain had indeed been too hard to leave the house and Sherlock sulked when Mrs Hudson invited herself up with gifts of tea and sandwiches. While John and Mrs Hudson sat happy as can be watching the re-runs of X-Factor, Sherlock stood sulkily at the window, trying to will the rain into submission and fiddling with his phone, waiting for Lestrade to text him and call him to his duty. John smiled every time Sherlock's despairing gaze turned to him and would his friend over, but Sherlock was stubborn and wouldn't sink so low as to resign himself to the dreaded X-Factor.

When Sherlock did get a text he opened it quickly, face alight with something akin to smugness which John guessed would intensify when he saw it was from Lestrade, but it wasn't from the Detective Inspector, and Sherlock's expression quickly sunk. John felt a bit guilty as it did. Then Sherlock read the text and another expression crossed his face briefly. John wanted to say the look was close to happiness, but couldn't be completely sure. Sherlock sent a text back, and it was John's phone which buzzed this time.

The text Sherlock had received had said 'Come sit down with us'. The one John received simply said 'No.'

* * *

Whilst John and Sherlock were generally together most of the time, it was rare of them to be together constantly for elongated periods. Whilst John had a job to do at the clinic, Sherlock also enjoyed time to himself, and would often bustle John out of the house saying they needed… uh, _milk_ or _pot noodle_ or _bread_ or _cheerios _or something else completely useless that would go out of date before they remembered they even still had them in the kitchen, and even on a case Sherlock had the tendency to run off or send John on errands to get information from 'boring' relatives or friends of victims while Sherlock did something dangerous which John would scold him for later, but in that moment couldn't do a damn thing because he was elsewhere doing the dull bit of the job - the 'people' bit.

But for the passed three days, John and Sherlock had hardly even left each other's sights. Whilst the bathroom was still private domain when one of them was inside of it, they often wound up in each other's presence in the living room and twice in two days John had fallen asleep on the sofa. The first night Sherlock had been engrossed in an experiment he had completed during the day but was typing up on his computer when John had dropped off. The second night, Sherlock had gone to sleep besides him, earlier than even John had fallen into slumber.

During those days there were no cases, and so they spoke to each other and laughed and John tried to make Sherlock watch some more Bond films and there was lingering touches and smouldering looks and there was something more happening and they both knew what, but neither of them actually acted on them instantly.

It took another day of not leaving each other's presence to dare do once again what John had done before, and this time the results were a bit better.

* * *

When Lestrade called upon their services the next day, John found that they had both had definitely become more attached as a result of the several days they'd shared almost exclusively with each other. John was finding it hard to remind himself there was no need to touch Sherlock's shoulder or wrist or in fact Sherlock at all in this more public situation, but was somehow surprised that Sherlock seemed to be suffering the same problem.

Well, suffering was perhaps too strong a word. Sherlock, having no real idea of how social etiquette worked, didn't refrain from his touches even though, really, when one thought about it, they were generally quite platonic.

Then, of course, John realised that at this crime scene where two boys had been lured away from a nearby party and were then brutally stabbed to death, there were people who _knew_ Sherlock Holmes, and would know Sherlock Holmes didn't touch anyone at all, even those he was generally quite fond of. So having John being touched so openly was like shouting out as loud as he could off every rooftop with a megaphone, admitting it all to the world.

It was Donovan who had the balls to speak up, even though Anderson had been sending them disgusted looks (which Sherlock dished right back at him with some verbal abuse to go with it) and Lestrade had been giving them a pointed stare. Donovan was very clear on her opinions as she always was, and told them to get a room when Sherlock's hand came to rest on John's back, because it was making her feel sick. Like, seriously grossed out. Not like we hadn't always known, but we didn't need the visual to go with it.

Honestly, it was as if they were having sex right next to the corpses, the way she was freaking out. John wondered whether she was really homophobic, or just intensely Sherlockphobic. The latter seemed the more likely, as Donovan, on the whole, wasn't a nasty person – really, it was only when Sherlock became involved that she was. Unfortunately, Sherlock was nearly always involved, especially in John's life.

Whilst John and Sherlock both felt comfortable with each other, there was always that tension which came from revealing to one's peers that you were in a relationship with another. John thought it was quite nice, actually – that familiar sense of awkwardness which came from a new relationship and made you feel all tingly and nervous and fantastic inside. Sherlock, he knew, would just think it was awkward because of how new the whole experience was for him. They would have to tell their siblings of course, but John suspected Mycroft would already know and Harry had always thought they were together from the minute he told her about his flatmate. Such knowledge wasn't particularly comforting, but at least it meant the worst that could happen would be a rolling of the eyes from Mycroft and about a month of gloating from Harry. All they would have to tell people with expressed emphasis would be the fact they weren't rushing anything, and that went double for Mrs Hudson who, due to her neighbour's lads, thought they were just a short step away from matching tuxedos and a big white cake. The truth was that they weren't even going on dates, and they definitely weren't spending every minute of their free time kissing. In fact, they kissed very little, and not for long. Sherlock still wasn't completely sure how he was supposed to be taking the whole issue, but considering he was a self-proclaimed sociopath he wasn't doing too badly.

For now, though, they were just seeing how it went, taking it as it came, and hoping for the best.

* * *

Then the awkward moment which must have made history back at the police station came to pass.

They were crowding around the corpses of the two boys still, and Sherlock was making deductions at top speed as usual, John was barely managing to keep up. He knew Sherlock was just pointing out the really hard things John would never in his life think of, and that Sherlock was also leaving a lot of things out which he thought were "obvious" or irrelevant, but John hadn't spotted them either. It was understandable, then, he felt, that he was feeling a bit annoyed when Sherlock turned to him, swept a greenfly away from John's forehead, and asked what John thought about it.

John started to give his medical opinion, of course, for that was what he was highly qualified in, starting to talk about the drugs issue which Sherlock hadn't previously mentioned, but Sherlock brushed him off.

"No, no, you have to think _bigger_, baby, because it's not just about that it's about–" He stopped abruptly, just catching up when everyone else had caught it instantly.

It hadn't meant to come out of Sherlock's lips, John knew, but it had and they were both frozen to the spot, mortified and blushing red while Lestrade was grinning and Anderson was making gagging noises and Donovan had snorted out loud whilst others were either smirking knowingly or giggling. Sherlock just stared at John when John closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to compose himself.

When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock had turned away and was twiddling his hands in a slightly distracted way.

"I'm, um," he said in a low voice. "Sorry." He then managed and John nodded quickly in return.

"It's fine." He said, also looking away and Sherlock also nodded.

"Right." He replied.

Behind them, Donovan was 'aww'ing in a mocking manner which pissed them both off, but they were still too embarrassed to say anything. Lestrade was the first to take pity on them both and called his officers away, telling them it wasn't like everyone didn't know already, for God's sake you all have goddamn jobs to do, and this isn't a damn TV show so get bloody moving.

John gave him a thankful look which Lestrade smiled at, and Sherlock coughed slightly before standing up and telling Lestrade his conclusions about the murder in a clipped manner which allowed Lestrade no room to argue. Lestrade sighed heavily when Sherlock had finished, looked at the couple again for a short moment before giving them their space and also walking away. When he'd gone Sherlock offered a hand to help John up, and John took it softly, standing and looking up to the taller man. He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles and knew that later they'd find themselves curled up on the sofa laughing freely about the horrific incident, even if right now they couldn't even make eye contact.

* * *

When John found himself back at work two day later, he found he was just continuing to tell people he can't cure their colds, and trying to diagnose screaming kids over their yelling parents and it was all getting very stressful. Just before his lunch break, though, a young couple came in with some love-sick look which was ruined slightly by the worry they each shared in their eyes. John was unsure of which was unhealthy as they both looked like nervous wrecks, as if the illness was shared. It turned out to be the young blonde lady who sat down and explained how ill she was and then described her symptoms.

John closed his eyes for a moment, wondering whether the human race had always been this stupid or whether Sherlock's opinions had finally managed to project onto John, and he was able to tell the woman with some amount of certainty that being sick in the morning and the darkening of her areolas and the weight gain and the other symptoms were really nothing to worry about, in fact it happened to most women at least once in their lives, and quite often twice. Sometimes even more. He gave her a test and told her which nurse to go see, and when she asked why she was going to see another doctor he had finally told her she was pregnant.

There was a beat as the information sunk in. John used it to congratulate the new parents, and with his words the couple seemed to snap out of a daze and they both pounced on him in a sudden hug. John took it with a certain amount of awkwardness, but couldn't help but feel a little lonely as he thought of the couple who were so happy and together. They asked his name and said if it were a boy they were _totally _going to name it John, and such a statement made John blink in surprise, and while it flattered him it just made him more lonely as he told the girl to check up with him and to not drink, smoke or do drugs and then bid them farewell.

He sat down heavily in his chair and took out his lunch which consisted of a hastily bought sandwich from the Spar he passed on the way to work, and an apple which he had second thoughts about touching, let alone _eating_, because it had been in the kitchen for quite a while, and whilst it didn't look rotten, it could be poisoned or radioactive or worse considering it had lived for a long time in _the kitchen_ with _Sherlock_. Thoughts of Sherlock made the black hole of loneliness festering in John's stomach all the worse.

He opened the sandwich and took a bite, but he felt ill and barely managed to swallow. He knew it was pathetic – pining after a lover who was hardly even a lover and also someone who he was going home to in less than five hours – but he couldn't help himself.

His phone buzzed about ten minutes into his brief brush with depression. It was a text saying 'We should go out tonight for dinner. It shouldn't rain according to the weatherman and I'm inclined to trust him as I am not qualified to speak up against him. Also, I may have blown up the majority of the kitchen. I'm not completely certain though, as there is still a large amount of smoke. SH' and suddenly, as a smile came back on John's face, he felt right at home.

* * *

End

* * *

A/N: Kay, with this fic included I've managed to make four out of seven stories in which I haven't killed John. Oh, yeah. I am making progress.


End file.
